Aunt Dimity's Christmas Read Online Free Page B

gracefully curving lines of royal-blue ink began to loop and curl across the page.
    Good morning, my dear, and what a beautiful morning it is. You must be so very pleased. The snow came, just as you hoped it would.
    â€œLet’s not talk about snow right now,” I said shortly. “We have something else to discuss.”
    And what might that be
?
    â€œAn old guy nearly froze to death in the drive last night,” I said.
    How dreadful
.
    â€œApparently, he was coming here to see you,” I told her. “The Pym sisters spoke with him as he passed their house. He told them he was going to Dimity Westwood’s cottage. I thought you might know him, because of your work with the trust.”
    Dimity Westwood had been filthy rich, but she hadn’t left her capital to gather dust. She’d used a good-sized chunk of it to found the Westwood Trust, an umbrella organization for a number of different charities, of which I was now the titular head.
    â€œYou met all sorts of people back then, didn’t you?” I asked. “Poor people, I mean.”
    My work with the trust introduced me to a great number of people I wouldn’t otherwise have had the privilege to meet. It certainly broadened my horizons
.
    Dimity’s unspoken reprimand stung, but only slightly. I didn’t want to see homeless people on my horizons. When panhandlers came toward me, I ran the other way. And since this particular vagrant had intruded on the first day of my Christmas celebration, I was feeling even less charitable than usual.
    â€œIs it possible that the tramp’s a friend of yours?” I asked patiently.
    It’s more than possible. It’s highly probable
.
    â€œWhy do you say that?” I asked.
    He used the bridle path, Lori
.
    â€œSo?”
    The bridle path shaves a quarter-mile from the distance between Finch and my cottage
.
    The bridle path ran along the edge of the river in Finch, out of sight of most of the houses, then followed a course that crossed behind the Pym sisters’ house, wound past the Harrises’ stables, and cut through the oak grove that separated my property from theirs.
    A stranger wouldn’t know about the bridle path. The gentleman must have visited me on previous occasions, and he must have been a regular visitor, to know about such a shortcut
.
    â€œHe hasn’t come here recently, though,” I pointed out, “or he would’ve known that you’re … no longer at home to visitors.”
    An old friend, then, out of touch for some years…. What would compel a sick and starving man to venture down a lonely bridle path in the midst of a blizzard
?
    â€œDoes it really matter?” I asked, preoccupied with thoughts of Christmas pudding.
    Of course it does. We must do something, Lori
.
    â€œHe’s already in the Radcliffe, getting the best medical care money can buy,” I asserted.
    But what will happen to him after he’s released from hospital? We must find someone to look after him
—
his family, his friends
….
He must not, under any circumstances, he thrown hack onto the streets
.
    â€œBut we don’t know who he is,” I said.
    Then we must find out. Describe him to me
.
    I shrugged. “Tall, thin. Long hair, long beard, both gray.”
    And his face
?
    â€œHis face?” I tried to focus on the man’s features, but all I could remember was the beard, the hair, and, oddly enough, his long, almost delicate fingers. “He has beautiful hands,” I offered. “That’s the best I can do. For Pete’s sake, Dimity, I was saving a man’s life, not painting his portrait.”
    Then you must go to the Radcliffe and have another look at him
.
    â€œToday?” I asked nervously. Hospital visits were not high on my list of favorite activities.
    The sooner the better
.
    â€œBut today’s my mother’s birthday,” I protested. “Bill and I were going to get our family